


Opening Shots

by sigridir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Molly, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Other, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigridir/pseuds/sigridir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mistakes have consequences... whether you're a consulting detective, consulting criminal or a consulting master of espionage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opening Shots

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft, although a canon character, is just too powerful a deus ex machina in the Sherlockverse (in fact, in the ACD canon too). If the writers want to do something shocking that would open up the story again, I wouldn't be surprised to see him eliminated. 
> 
> Here's my take on that story.

In the aftermath, all Sherlock could think was ‘I should have seen this coming’.

The truth was that this possibility had never really occurred to him. Mycroft was inhuman, immortal, the epitome of Big Brother who knew everything, foresaw every path and managed every contingency; a colossus who blocked out the sun from Sherlock’s life. Not a creature of flesh and blood and bone like everyone else.

Of course Sherlock had always known that his brother was powerful and important but anonymous; the eminence grise who manipulated from the shadows. He’d never really considered that Mycroft’s carefully-crafted image of an old-fashioned ‘confirmed bachelor’, dandified almost to the point of campness, was actually deep protective camouflage. Instead, he’d used it to taunt and drive needles into all his brother’s soft spots.

And Sherlock's actions were what had forced his brother to show his hand.  Charles Augustus Magnussen had been right; Sherlock Holmes was Mycroft Holmes’ pressure point and the chink in his armour. Mycroft had loved their parents and would have moved heaven and earth for their sakes too, but Mummy and Father would have listened to him and been safe. Sherlock knew better of course, and as so frequently happened when he interfered in his brother’s plans he had made the situation exponentially worse.

Sherlock’s killing of Magnussen on Christmas Day might have protected John Watson from that vile creature, but it had blown a hole in Mycroft’s armour. One big enough to sink the battleship that Sherlock had never really appreciated was eternally looming, weapons at the ready to destroy anything genuinely threatening him.

Mycroft’s frantic, panicked shout from the helicopter that Christmas Day had been the first sign of something terribly wrong. When the chopper had landed and disgorged the SAS team, his brother had been pale. Mycroft had grabbed Sherlock and given him an uncharacteristic bone-crushing hug, before they had both been dragged away to separate locations at gunpoint along with John Watson. It was only during the days of interrogation that followed, when Mycroft didn't appear to oversee the proceedings that he started to grow concerned.

When after several days Mycroft didn't take the opportunity to gloat over Sherlock’s failure, as the younger man had confidently expected, the ramifications of his actions began to seep in. He’d been so confident of handing a gift-wrapped Magnussen over to properly impress his big brother and free John’s little family that Sherlock had made Mycroft complicit in treason through the trading of his laptop. The realisation dawned that it was possible his brother wasn't merely avoiding him, but had already been eliminated as an unacceptable security risk and disposed of in an unmarked grave.

Sherlock had never been more relieved than he had been the day his brother appeared in his cell to deliver his sentence in a voice that was monotone and unemotional even by Mycroftian standards. Mycroft had looked unwell, and been more closed-off than even Sherlock had seen before. When Sherlock had tried to approach him, he’d stepped away and left almost immediately. Now Sherlock could only wonder what favours Mycroft had called in and how much precious capital had been expended to buy him a little more time. 

The day of his almost-exile had actually turned out to be a good day. Mycroft had been so relieved that he didn’t have to carry the burden of delivering his little brother’s death sentence any longer that he’d been decidedly cheerful. Sherlock had a purpose and John Watson was by his side once more. Of course it couldn't last.

* * *

 

The pretence at normality that had been established that winter had peaked with the birth of baby Watson.  Although there’d been little actual action, the threat of Moriarty had bonded the little group of Sherlock’s friends, only now it also included Mycroft and key members of his staff.

Angela Watson had been born amidst the chaos following Moriarty’s reincarnation. However, now things were a little calmer it had been agreed that she would be christened in the chapel that stood at the fringes of the  Holmes’ ancestral estate, that being deemed a secure location. Sherlock had joked to John and Mary as he’d showed them around the old manor and associated parkland. "This will all be Mycroft’s when Great Uncle Rudy finally dies. He already has control of all the money. One day he’ll have to bite the bullet and produce little Holmeses to hand it on to, just to spite me."

The christening itself was uneventful, the elderly local vicar was deft in handling babies and Angela was a placid child. The little crowd of well-wishers, friends and family were dispersing quickly in the omnipresent British drizzle when the twin shots rang out. There was silence for a moment then chaos reigned as people dove for cover or reached for weapons.

Mycroft had been making polite conversation with Molly Hooper of all people just beyond the church door, gentlemanly offering his umbrella to protect her feathered fascinator from the wet. The first realisation that something was terribly wrong was when unlike everyone else, he didn’t appear to react for a moment. Then Molly was shrieking “John! John!” as Mycroft collapsed to the ground like the fall of Empire, the pathologist supporting as much of his weight as possible as the man went down.

All hell broke loose. Molly ripped off her pashmina and attempted to stem the flow of blood pouring from the wound in Mycroft’s throat. Anthea, formerly sheltering from the drizzle in the doorway kicked off her Louboutin heels, shucked up her tight skirt and ran barefoot through the graveyard for the twin black jaguars parked beyond the lychgate, shouting “Mike Hotel down!  Mike Hotel down! Get an air ambulance here, stat!” One of the drivers was already running up the shallow slope, an orange case in his hands while the rest of the security detail broke out into the small copse nearby, weapons drawn.

John Watson skidded to a stop beside Mycroft’s fallen form, old training pulling to the fore. Molly was trying her best to hold the spasming Holmes senior still as she applied pressure to the neck wounds. She turned to John with a grim expression “High velocity gunshot wounds, neck and upper thorax, right side under the arm. Straight through the neck, not sure about the chest.” An English country graveyard on a damp early spring afternoon is about as far from the rocky mountains of Afghanistan as you can get, but the scene is depressingly familiar to John and well-drilled instincts take over.

Mycroft’s driver dropped alongside them, ripping open the paramedic kit that was obviously carried as contingency for such an event. John immediately began rummaging through the contents, tearing open packets, relieved to find a full battlefield trauma kit, even down to haemostatic patches, Kerlix gauze, packs of saline and blood. He didn’t want to think of the implications of the fact that Mycroft Holmes habitually traveled with this and a couple of litres of what appeared to be his own blood. John was also profoundly grateful for Molly, as although it was clear the driver had some paramedic training, the man was white and shaking. The pathologist however was unfazed by the fact that she was covered with gore like Dracula’s bride as she worked to stem the worst of the blood loss.

Despite near instant response from a trained army surgeon, the prognosis is grim and Dr Watson’s expression mirrored that as he worked. Mycroft was beginning to drown in his own blood, and although still conscious was slipping into shock. The best John could hope for here was to stabilise him long enough to make it to a proper trauma unit. With steady hands, he readied a saline drip, desperate to get fluids into his patient before the man went into hypovolaemic shock.

Mycroft‘s eyes were wide and panicked, but he fought to stay conscious and despite the damage seemed to be trying to speak, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth with every choking breath. John looked over at the driver-cum-medic as he realised what the fallen man wanted ‘Get Sherlock. Now’. The man nodded and sprang to his feet almost effortlessly, obviously glad to escape the scene.

Sherlock’s first sight of the catastrophe was the sight of his brother’s left leg trembling in the mud, although the rest of him was obscured by people. The detective broke into a full run, shoving the little crowd of onlookers aside as he crashed to his knees beside Mycroft’s head.

John later swore that he saw relief in Mycroft’s eyes; relief that his brother was unhurt at least. Sherlock grabbed his brother’s hand and used his other to shakily smooth across Mycroft’s hairline. ‘I’m here, Mikey. I’m here now.’ He didn’t dare do anything else, not wanting to get in the way of the medical practitioners.

Mycroft locked eyes with his younger brother. Summoning up reserves from somewhere, he managed a choked whisper ‘Not… alone’. Sherlock clutched onto Mycroft’s hand as hard as he could, “Don’t talk, don’t talk’ he stuttered. John shook Sherlock hard, snapping him out of his temporary shock ‘Keep talking to him, keep him calm, keep him with us!” he barked out, in full surgeon mode as he prepared an intubation.

Sherlock’s mind flailed about for moment as his brain short circuited. Mycroft’s already feeble grip on his hand weakened still further and he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do to make this better. Then something bubbled up from the depths of his memory and he began to sing gently “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…’ There’s a twitch of Mycroft’s fingers in his that may just be an acknowledgment, then nothing.

John’s brief surprise at hearing Sherlock singing is broken by the change in his patient “Fuck, we’re losing him!” Molly moved into action, straddling Mycroft’s inert form and performing CPR, incongruously singing “Staying Alive” under her breath to keep her rhythm as she pushed hard on his ribs. John busied himself with priming the defibrillator that was part of the medical kit, but he was relieved to hear the sound of helicopter blades approaching. At his command, Molly scrambled clear, pulling Sherlock’s hands to her as John shocked Mycroft before returning to her task. John searched for a pulse, but found none even as Molly restarted the procedure but he wasn't ready to give up hope yet.

Molly was so intently focussed on resuscitation that she had to be physically dragged away as the civilian team arrived and took over with John taking command of the situation, a man in his element. He was the only one allowed in the helicopter as the team whisked the fallen Holmes away.

Sherlock didn’t remember the journey to the hospital, only that it was fast. The black government Jaguars tore through the English countryside with lights flashing, making a mockery of traffic laws. Molly stayed with him, wrapped in an orange shock blanket, never letting his hand go as she finally allowed herself to cry. Anthea had managed to procure a towel and a box of wet-wipes from somewhere, so Molly did the best she could to clean away the worst of the gore. She was still acutely aware of leaving filth on the pristine interior of the vehicle and of sitting beside Sherlock with his brother’s blood still soaked in her clothes, in her hair and under her nails.

When they arrived at St Mary’s hospital, they were ushered past whispering onlookers looking askance at Molly’s bedraggled and bloody appearance. The pair ended up in a little room in A&E where John Watson stood waiting. Sherlock took one look at his friend and collapsed onto the cheap plastic seats. John crouched awkwardly in front of his best friend “I’m so sorry Sherlock” he whispered “They tried, but they couldn’t restart his heart. He was declared dead shortly after arrival. There was nothing more that anyone could have done”.

The truth that no-one wanted to say was that Mycroft Holmes, one of the most powerful men in the country, died choking in the mud of a country graveyard. Molly felt sick for the first time that day, but she forced the bile down. Instead she pulled Sherlock to her and rocked him like a child, as the detective shook silently against her.

John sat beside them with a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling almost useless but not sure what to say further. He’s grateful that Mary had been cool enough to text him that everyone else was safe, her and the baby included. She’d added that the security detail had run the sniper to earth, but he’d died trying to evade capture and so little would be learned from him.

John was spared having to do or say anything further when his mobile beeped loudly and repeatedly. He pulled it out, hoping that it was another message from Mary but froze as he read the texts.

_‘Hello, Sherly darling. The king is dead, long live the king.’_

_‘How does it feel knowing that Big Brother isn’t watching you?’_

_‘Time to come out and play’_

He wordlessly handed the mobile to Sherlock, who read the messages without blinking. The detective was silent for a moment, then leapt to his feet with an incoherent shout of fury, hurling the phone at the wall hard enough dent the plaster and crack the screen. He spun on his heel and was gone out of the door, out of the hospital and into the streets before either John or Molly could catch him.

John recovered the phone. He’d already dialled Mycroft’s emergency number before he realised what he’d just done and swore foully. Instead he made the call to Lestrade. "Greg? It’s John Watson. I need your help to find Sherlock…"

 

* * *

 

_“Mikey…..”_

_“Mikey!”_

_Mycroft Holmes blinks awake, squinting at the bedside alarm clock. The glowing letters proclaim that it’s 4.22 am. He groans as he realises that Sherlock is awake again._

_“Lockie, it’s past four o’clock. What is it?” he manages._

_“I’m scared, Mikey.” The six-year-old hovering in his bedroom doorway looks like a lost cherub, clutching the stuffed womble that he had received for his birthday the year before._

_Mycroft sighs. He supposes that it is a particularly dark and wild night, with the wind whistling through the trees and the eaves of the old house. He just wishes that his little brother would be like other children and seek solace in their parents’ bed, rather than demanding comfort from him. He’s pretty sure that at thirteen none of his schoolmates has to deal with a snivelling pest in their bed._

_Still, Sherlock is his little brother, and there’ll be no getting rid of him tonight no matter how much he tries to reason with him that monsters Do. Not. Exist.  So he pulls the quilt back with a put-upon-sigh. “Come on then, nuisance.”_

_Sherlock sticks his tongue out at his brother’s nickname, but then dives across the room, jumping onto Mycroft. Mycroft lets out an ‘Oof’ but envelops them both snugly in the warm quilt anyway. He wraps his arms round the ice-block masquerading as a human child, grumbling about being kicked by cold feet even as he lets Sherlock shove them under his legs._

_Sherlock burrows his head under the covers into his brother’s chest, hiccoughing softly and Mycroft belatedly realises that the boy is actually crying. Combing his fingers soothingly through his brother’s curls, Mycroft manages to say ”Hey, it’s OK now. You’re safe with me.”_

_“I missed you Mikey” Sherlock sniffles against him, liberally saturating his pyjamas with snot. ”It’s lonely without you here.”_

_Mycroft almost cries himself, pressing his nose into Sherlock’s hair. He’d never admit it aloud, but he has missed his oft annoying (but always interesting) little brother too. Boarding school is interesting in its own way, but there’s no-one there like himself, or Sherlock for that matter._

_“You know I’ll always look after you, Lockie? That’s what big brothers do. You’re not alone, because I always think about you, you muppet.”_

_Sherlock pokes him hard in the ribs, but he’s snuffling a bit rather than actively crying now at least. “I’m not a muppet!”_

_“Could have fooled me with this mop you call hair” Mycroft ruffles the curls._

_“At least my hair’s black. Your hair is the colour of a muppet!” Sherlock glowers at him, and Mycroft is hard pressed not to laugh at the baby pout. He’s sure his brother will sulk quite spectacularly in a few more years._

_Mycroft settles them both into the comfortable dip in the old mattress “Anyway, time to sleep, brother mine” he whispers. Sherlock is quiet for a few moments, just long enough for Mycroft to almost doze off, when he speaks again “Mikey? Will you sing for me? Please?”_

_Mycroft rolls his eyes in the darkness. Sherlock is possibly the only living creature that likes to hear Mycroft Holmes sing. Even his mother finds his attempts amusing and Redbeard hides. The school music master has given up and ordered him to leave compulsory choir practice, much to Mycroft’s relief. Even so, he’s never been able to deny Sherlock and it’s quite nice that someone appreciates him, however misguidedly, so he starts softly singing. He croons the song their grandmother taught him when he was little, until Sherlock is snoring through his congested nose and Mycroft finally dozes off himself._

_“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,_

_You make me happy when skies are grey,_

_You’ll never know dear, how much I love you,_

_Please don’t take my sunshine away.”_

**Author's Note:**

> 'Staying Alive' is used as part of the first-aid training for performing CPR here in the UK. Apparently it has the correct rhythm for the timing of chest compressions...


End file.
